Judith covered her face with her hands. "I don't know what to do!" she said despairingly.
No phrase coming from Judith could have struck a more piercing alarm into her sister's heart. She ran to Judith, pulled her hands down, and looked into her face anxiously. "What do you mean, Judy—what do you mean?"
"Why—it's five days now since Mother died, three days since the funeral—and Father has hardly eaten a mouthful—and I don't think he's slept at all. I know he hasn't taken his clothes off. And—and—" she drew Sylvia again to the bed, and sat down beside her, "he says such things … the night after Mother died Lawrence had cried so I was afraid he would be sick, and I got him to bed and gave him some hot milk,"—the thought flashed from one to the other almost palpably, "That is what Mother would have done"—"and he went to sleep—he was perfectly worn out. I went downstairs to find Father. It was after midnight. He was walking around the house into one room after another and out on the porch and even out in the garden, as fast as he could walk. He looked so—" She shuddered. "I went up to him and said, 'Father, Father, what are you doing?' He never stopped walking an instant, but he said, as though I was a total stranger and we were in a railway station or somewhere like that, 'I am looking for my wife. I expect to come across her any moment, but I can't seem to remember the exact place I was to meet her. She must be somewhere about, and I suppose—' and then, Sylvia, before I could help it, he opened the door to Mother's room quick—and the men were there, and the coffin—" She stopped short, pressing her hand tightly over her mouth to stop its quivering. Sylvia gazed at her in horrified silence.
After a pause, Judith went on: "He turned around and ran as fast as he could up the stairs to his study and locked the door. He locked me out—the night after Mother died. I called and called to him—he didn't answer. I was afraid to call very loud for fear of waking Lawrence. I've had to think of Lawrence too." She stopped again to draw a long breath. She stopped and suddenly reached out imploring hands to hold fast to Sylvia. "I'm so glad you have come!" she murmured.
This from Judith ran like a galvanic shock through Sylvia's sorrow-sodden heart. She sat up, aroused as she had never been before to a stern impulse to resist her emotion, to fight it down. She clasped Judith's hand hard, and felt the tears dry in her eyes. Judith went on: "If it hadn't been for Lawrence—he's sick as it is. I've kept him in his room—twice when he's been asleep I've managed to get Father to eat something and lie down—there seem to be times when he's so worn out that he doesn't know what he's doing. But it comes back to him. One night I had just persuaded him to lie down, when he sat up again with that dreadful face and said very loud: 'Where is my wife? Where is Barbara?' That was on the night after the funeral. And the next day he came to me, out in the garden, and said,—he never seems to know who I am: 'I don't mind the separation from my wife, you understand—it's not that—I'm not a child, I can endure that—but I must know where she is. I must know where she is!' He said it over and over, until his voice got so loud he seemed to hear it himself and looked around—and then he went back into the house and began walking all around, opening and shutting all the doors. What I'm afraid of is his meeting Lawrence and saying something like that. Lawrence would go crazy. I thought, as soon as you came, you could take him away to the Helman farm—the Helmans have been so good—and Mrs. Helman offered to take Lawrence—only he oughtn't to be alone—he needs one of us—"
Judith was quiet now, and though very pale, spoke with her usual firmness. Sylvia too felt herself iron under the pressure of her responsibilities. She said: "Yes, I see. All right—I'll go," and the two went together into Lawrence's room. He was lying on the bed, his face in the pillows. At the sound of their steps he turned over and showed a pitiful white face. He got up and moved uncertainly towards Sylvia, sinking into her arms and burying his face on her shoulder.
But a little later when their plan was told him, he turned to Judith with a cry: "No, you go with me, Judy! I want you! You 'know'—about it."
Over his head the sisters looked at each other with questioning eyes; and Sylvia nodded her consent. Lawrence had always belonged to Judith.
CHAPTER XLII
"Strange that we creatures of the petty ways,
Poor prisoners behind these fleshly bars,
Can sometimes think us thoughts with God ablaze,
Touching the "fringes of the outer stars.""